


Sleeping Rough

by Lalaen



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Dorian is a Little Shit, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sex fiend lavellan, Stress Relief, Tent Sex, lavellan can’t control his magic during sex, they both can’t shut up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalaen/pseuds/Lalaen
Summary: Dorian just wants the inquisitor to get a good night’s sleep, but if making love to him helps... well, he’s not at all opposed.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Mage Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 164





	Sleeping Rough

**Author's Note:**

> Little late to this fandom, but hoping there’s still some people around to appreciate this! Shoutout to my dear friend who has cursed me with loving this game.

“... you’d best believe that you’re not getting out of my sight again,” Dorian said, sounding haughty as ever but with what the Inquisitor would know was steely seriousness. He ushered Gethrael into the tent ahead of him, and as usual the elf was pliant and uncomplaining. Who would imagine such a kind and amenable man as one of the most powerful political figures in the world? Certainly not Dorian. He would’ve told you himself that a mage like this would get eaten alive by the Magisterium. 

Unfortunately, Gethrael was likely to get another kind of eaten alive; seeing as he somehow managed to be simultaneously highly intelligent and one of the stupidest men Dorian had ever met. He crawled backwards into the tent, hiding well how he favoured his left hand. He was giving Dorian one of those little smiles of his, the one that made his eyes sparkle and that he so clearly thought was incredibly suave. He was... mistaken, but it was charming all the same. 

“And if I have to take a piss?” 

“I’m coming with you,” Dorian teased back. As soon as he finished fastening the tent flap, he reached out and started unfastening the tunic that covered the inquisitor’s light mail. “Someone has to, if you’re going to dart directly in harm’s way again.”

“If the rifts are disrupted,” Gethrael sounded very cavalier for someone who was letting himself be undressed, “it’s much less dangerous for everyone involved.”

“Except for you, you half-wit,” Dorian said fondly. “You run in past all those nasty demons, clad in nothing but your spirit barrier; not so much as checking over your shoulder that we are keeping up with you. It’s very heroic.” 

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” Gethrael said, the joke somehow escaping him. One wouldn’t think it was possible to hear sarcasm sometimes and completely miss it others, but that was part of the elf’s unique charm, Dorian supposed. 

“I’m well aware, dearest,” Dorian said, working on the buckles of Gethrael’s mail. 

“You seem eager to undress me, for someone who spent half the day talking about how exhausted he was,” the inquisitor said in a voice so thickly flirtatious it could almost be called husky, and Dorian had to laugh. 

“Maker, you can’t possibly think you’re seducing me,” he pushed the mail off of Gethrael’s shoulders, thinking as he did so that as light as it was it still seemed impossibly heavy for a slender elven body. Not that the inquisitor wasn’t strong - he was deliciously fit, actually - but those shoulders were so narrow. “Here I am, trying to have a nice chaste look at you,” Dorian said in mock offence. 

A stick hit the side of the tent. “Ugh! You two are horrible!” Sera said loudly from outside. “Already heard enough, don’t want to hear you havin’ him.”

“I’ll try to keep it down,” Dorian called back to her jovially. Though he did genuinely like her quite a lot himself, he wished the inquisitor didn’t insist on bringing her everywhere whenever he left Skyhold. Dorian couldn’t imagine, for example, what would possess someone to think she’d do well at the Winter Palace. He would’ve picked Varric, personally. The man was a great liar. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Sera scoffed, “are you offended if I don’t believe you? Right - don’t care if you are.”

“Such a charming girl,” Dorian said, and Gethrael gave an apologetic little smile. 

“She means well.”

Dorian smelled the briefest acrid whiff of ozone, and that did genuinely worry him. Apparently despite all appearances, Gethrael was wound tightly enough that a stick hitting the tent was grounds to almost shock the hell out of everyone in the immediate vicinity. “Amatus,” he said, cajoling, and placed gentle hands on each of the elf’s shoulders. He would never talk down to the man, never baby or pity him, knew how he hated it. Even that tone visibly annoyed Gethrael, put a set to his pretty lips that Dorian hated to see. Still - thank the heavens that their staves were outside the tent. Though he’d never dare say it aloud, Dorian didn’t think that the Dalish schooling for mages taught as fine of control as the Magisterium, despite the latter’s many flaws. It would be no surprise at all to him if Gethrael’s power had outstripped his teacher’s ability to teach. 

“Perhaps you should undress yourself,” the inquisitor purred as Dorian started to undo the ties of his armour padding. 

“We’ll get there,” Dorian chuckled, giving him a doting smile and continuing to resolutely strip him. He really just wanted a good look at how badly injured Gethrael was - he was so good at hiding his own discomfort that even some of his close friends were oblivious to it. That was something Sera did excellently, Dorian had to admit. She was always right there picking the inquisitor up if he fell, calling out that he needed help, loudly insisting that they needed to get to a camp when he would never say it himself. 

Finally getting rid of the padding to leave just the thin linen shirt underneath, Dorian leaned in to kiss him, quieting him while he pulled off his gloves. Of course, Gethrael’s left hand was hurting, he felt the stiffness in it as he held it between his own; but there was nothing he could do about that. Today he’d watched a demon hit the elf hard enough to send him flying ten feet, and maybe he could fix some of those pains. He slid his hands gently under Gethrael’s shirt, pulling it up to his shoulders before breaking the kiss. 

It wasn’t so bad, really; a few ugly bruises. That explained how the inquisitor was still trying so enthusiastically to get in his breeches. Dorian pushed him back, pressing his palms flush against Gethrael’s chest and letting a little magic trickle into him. He wasn’t much for spirit magic, but necromancy was... adjacent. He’d never attempt anything drastic, but he had enough to help along little cuts and bruises. He felt more than heard a long sigh, and was happy he’d brought some minor relief. The elf had closed his eyes, and looked so serene that Dorian wondered for a moment if he was already falling asleep. If that was the case, would he be able to get him properly into bed without waking him up? He could use the rest. 

“Is that all you were intending on doing?” Gethrael teased, his lips quirking. He opened one dark eye, peering through his pale lashes. 

“That depends if you can find the energy,” Dorian said, assuming he would be able to. There must be something to those rumours about the Dalish, because Gethrael was one of most oversexed men he’d ever met. He started unbuckling his own tunic, as he wasn’t going to sleep in it regardless. 

“I will manage,” Gethrael arched his back and pushed himself upright, stretching his arms over his head to pull his shirt off properly. He was delightfully blasé about nudity, and didn’t hesitate to undress completely, discarding his breeches and smallclothes. Dorian realized with some embarrassment that he’d become so distracted watching that he’d frozen in place undoing his shirt. 

“You’ve absolutely ruined your hair, my dear,” Dorian said as the elf, sans even a stitch of clothing, straddled his lap. Gethrael’s tight braided twist had been in rough shape when they got in the tent, but now it was unsalvageable. “Maker’s mercy, if anyone saw it in such a state. You’d be the talk of Orlais for months.”

“Oh no,” Gethrael said, not bothering to even feign concern for comedy’s sake. He kissed at the corner of Dorian’s mouth, his lips warm and soft. The most incredible thing about him - or the one at the forefront of Dorian’s mind, as there was a very long list of exceptional traits - was how much he wanted. Every brush of skin, every glance, every hot little gasp of breath spoke to how happy he was to be touched, kissed, fucked. The inquisitor had been told many times that his body language was too open, that he needed to be more guarded. Dorian absolutely agreed that was more than necessary to protect oneself in high society; but deep down he vehemently hoped Gethrael never really learned it. 

Dorian felt in the elf’s hair for the U pin that was struggling to hold it up. When he pulled it free that long platinum hair immediately tumbled down over his shoulders, falling in uneven waves from his braids. He looked beautiful that way, all the more so because few people had the privilege of seeing it. 

“You’re still very dressed,” Gethrael’s lips brushed against Dorian’s as he spoke. 

“You’re impeding me undressing, being in my lap,” even as he said it, both of his hands were cupping the elf’s ass, urging him closer. Damn the clothes between them. 

“And you’re holding me here.”

“It seems we’re at an impasse, dearest,” Dorian said with saccharine sweetness. He could feel Gethrael starting to relax, despite them being in a tent with the hard ground under them, and surrounded by the sounds of camp. That was something. He didn’t particularly want to get cooked in his sleep because someone had startled his bedmate. 

The inquisitor picked up where he’d left off with his tunic, and his lack of confusion with the buckles and fastenings was a testament to how many times they’d done this. He kissed Dorian again, more hungrily; his hot breath coming in little gasps between them. Dorian smiled against his lips and slid his grip from the elf’s ass to his slim waist. He was exceptionally light, and it was easy to gently pry him off and push him down on his back. 

“I can’t exactly take my breeches off with you in my lap,” Dorian said, wasting no time doing exactly that because seeing Gethrael like that - on his back, naked, wet lips parted and hair fanned around him - would surely arouse anyone. A desire demon couldn’t choose a more tempting form. Were there any hedonistic elven gods to compare him to? Admittedly Dorian didn’t understand their pantheon particularly well, and it wasn’t exactly the moment to ponder that. Gethrael watched him quietly, blatantly appreciative gaze sliding down his body like a physical touch. Dorian crawled over the elf, pressing kisses on the sensitive skin under his jawline and relishing the tiny hitches of breath against his ear. 

“What do you want, my dear?” He muttered, his voice low and husky. It was a rhetorical question at best, but Dorian couldn’t pass up any opportunity to tease. “I did tell Sera we’d be quiet... and wouldn’t it be unseemly for the whole camp to,” he paused to mouth the spot under Gethrael’s earlobe, feeling the flutter of his pulse, “hear your impassioned cries?”

“I’m not that loud,” the inquisitor sounded mildly offended, and Dorian had to chuckle. Lewd talk always seemed to confuse him, and while that wasn’t the intended effect it was utterly adorable. 

“I beg to differ,” Dorian said smugly, reaching down between them to palm the elf’s cock. “I suppose you can’t hear yourself? Very well then, I’ll just have to call the whole thing off if you start making too much noise.”

“Who’s put you in charge?” Gethrael said breathlessly, looking up at him with hooded eyes. 

“And here I thought you enjoyed the repast from bossing everyone around. I could be at your service at any time, you know,” Dorian said, watching his face as he stroked him; appreciating how his eyelids fluttered and his lips parted. 

The inquisitor’s brows drew together and he waved his hand to fend off that thought. Dorian had to smile at that. Gethrael was very assertive when it came to getting someone in bed with him, but as soon as he was there; he became so purely responsive that the thought of him ordering Dorian to do anything at all was comical. 

“Well, now,” the mage pulled his hand away, hovering just close enough that Gethrael would know it was still there. “Maybe I should make you ask if you want to be touched.” Really, he was just reaching for the pouch that he knew the oil was kept in among the elf’s discarded clothes; but the frustrated look he was getting was delightful. 

“Dorian...” the elf muttered irately, and looked even more distressed when Dorian sat up enough to use both hands. It was a real feat to uncap and re-seal the oil bottle with just the one. 

“Ah ah, cover your mouth if you please,” Dorian said as he traced his knuckles feather-light along Gethrael’s inner thigh. When the inquisitor hesitated, he stopped his hand from going any higher and added, “unless you want to get looks from your soldiers all day tomorrow - might be worth it to embarrass Cassandra, though...”

Gethrael made an annoyed sound at him, but obliged. As soon as he clapped a hand over his mouth, Dorian pressed a finger into him. Not that loud, ha! Right away he was rewarded with a muffled groan, and when he added a second finger mere moments later, the elf’s lithe body was arching and pressing back against his hand. Dorian felt his own cheeks getting hot as he watched his lover struggle to keep it together. He could never grow tired of this. Gethrael’s fingertips were making bloodless marks on his face and he let slip a very audible whine as Dorian hooked his fingers against his prostate. 

A blue bolt arced across his torso from shoulder to hip with an all-too-familiar snapping sound. Dorian managed to reflexively catch it before it could jump further, gathering it in his hand and forcing it down to nothing. “Maker’s mercy, amatus,” he said with a grin, “you’re lucky I’m talented, you know. Not just any mage could handle you.” Not without causing some damage, anyways. 

Gethrael flipped him off with his free hand, and a ‘you’re guilty, too,’ sparked in his dark eyes. 

Dorian leaned over him, taking his wrist and pinning it beside his head. He could personally take or leave such a thing, but he very much enjoyed the effect it had on the inquisitor. “I see you can no longer defend yourself from my cutting wit,” he teased, thrusting mercilessly and watching the elf tremble. It was too bad he had to keep quiet; really. Not only was it nice to hear him, but he could keep up a fairly impressive back-and-forth for much longer than anyone would expect. Dorian lifted his hand - it was so limp that it wasn’t being pinned down, per se - and pressed a tender kiss to the knuckles. “Since I’m so fond of you,” he said, naked affection in his voice, “I suppose I can ease up.”

Gethrael’s hand moved from his mouth slowly, as though he’d forgotten how not to have it there. “Such a martyr,” he said, eyes glinting, and even though his voice was shaky he managed to make it drip with sarcasm. 

“You’re awful,” Dorian couldn’t stop a grin. “I cannot stand you,” he said, overwhelmed with the desire to kiss the inquisitor, his heart pounding in his chest. He did so at once, swallowing the ‘mmh,’ that escaped Gethrael as he pushed in a third finger. It was too much; painful really, how deeply this man made him feel. How ridiculous - he had most of his hand up a beautiful man’s ass and he was getting misty eyed with emotion. He pulled back from the kiss a hair’s breath, and getting a good look at Gethrael’s expression was enough for his cock to insistently demand attention. 

“My darling,” he said quietly, and there must be something in his tone because he felt a shudder underneath him. He pressed his lips against the shell of a long pointed ear, feeling Gethrael’s slender chest rise and fall against his own. “I am going to take you until you’re casting sparks,” he continued in a sultry whisper. The elf’s arm slid around his shoulders and squeezed him close, indicating wordlessly how eager he was. Dorian pulled his hand back and slicked his cock. The position was a bit awkward with so little space between them, but he was well used to getting inside Gethrael while he was clinging tightly. Besides, it was well worth it for the way that slim body fit against him, feeling the rapid heartbeat, hearing the elf panting through his nose right next to Dorian’s ear. 

As soon as he started to push inside, Gethrael’s leg wrapped around Dorian’s waist and dug his heel into the small of his back, urging him on. He had to chuckle, turning his head to kiss the elf’s cheek on the white ink of the vallaslin that swirled under his eye. There was no doubt whatsoever in Dorian’s mind that if his lover could speak at the moment, he would be making pointed comments about being a tease and just fuck him already.

By now, even Dorian - who was a tease in all honesty - was getting impatient, and without the verbal sparring there was no reason to deny either of them any longer. He held the inquisitor’s waist, easily arching him off the bedroll and into the perfect angle to sheathe himself in one thrust. Gethrael jolted in his arms, letting out a deeply satisfied groan that was too throaty to be all that stifled by his hand. If Dorian hadn’t already been almost painfully erect, that would’ve done it. He was throbbing inside of the elf, feeling his heartbeat in his hard cock as he waited to move. 

“You truly do wonders for my ego, amatus,” he said, voice strained and breathless. “Maker knows my head will be too big to get through doorways, soon.” He hid his smile in Gethrael’s neck, stroking the curve of his spine with a thumb as he waited for him to adjust. Dorian wasn’t sure if he’d say it aloud, but he definitely felt a thrill knowing that someone could likely hear how much the inquisitor enjoyed his company. He couldn’t help the insecurity that he’d surely be seen as the seducer, as he always had been - but at least they’d think him damn good at what he did. 

Gethrael’s hips pressed back against him, letting him know he could move, and Dorian was happy to oblige with a slow, deep rhythm that he knew would hit all the right spots. Of course it felt amazing to him too; each stroke taking him to the base. However, he was at an age where he knew the man giving was likely to feel incredible no matter how bad at it he was. Some talent was needed to make the receiver feel good, and if one was talented enough they could take their partner to unknown heights of pleasure. The elf rocked back to meet each thrust, but it was only moments before Dorian felt him vigorously shaking his head. The Mage drew back immediately to see his face, feeling the precipice that was the verge of panic. No matter how unlikely it seemed that he’d hurt or upset his lover somehow, the idea horrified him. 

Gethrael didn’t look like something was wrong. In fact, his gaze was still smouldering with desire and damn him, he’d just made Dorian stop and he was shifting his hips impatiently. 

“What?” He sounded indignant because he was, and the elf rolled his eyes up to the heavens like he was the one being unreasonable. 

Again the hand moved. “Harder, Dorian,” Gethrael said, and when Dorian grabbed his hips and dragged him up as he knelt, he slammed both hands over his mouth. 

Lovely that the elf was so flexible. Dorian spared a hand to move the leg that was woven around his waist; pushing it up to prop against his shoulder in a position some men would certainly struggle with. He leaned back down as much as he could with Gethrael’s leg folded between them, giving a rather dark-sounding chuckle. “Of course, you insatiable creature.” He said it as gently as he might say ‘my dearest’, and he regretted he couldn’t kiss him again. 

Apparently the inquisitor wasn’t just in the mood to fuck, but really be fucked, hard. Only he could unerringly choose when he was supposed to be quiet to want this; and not a sweet, gentle round of lovemaking. It would be a miracle if not only the camp but the surrounding countryside heard him. 

“Alright,” Dorian said breathlessly; and started pounding into him with enough force to shake his smaller body. He immediately gave a choked cry, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. This time the pace was punishing, and it was obvious in every line of his body that he’d needed this. He was tense, trembling, arching desperately until it looked like he might break himself in two. Arousing was an understatement, and Dorian was thankful for his good sexual stamina and his physical fitness. Still, even he would have a difficult time keeping this up for long. Gethrael’s body was twitching around him, and the friction of the quick strokes was almost enough to make him lose control. Blue sparks erupted down the elf’s torso with a hum, dancing over his dark skin and wreathing him in flickering light. Dorian grinned down at him, staying deep and grinding hard enough to make him slide back on the bedroll. He knew both the elf and the magic too well to worry about that - it was just his static charge, and would be harmless unless someone attacked him. Most likely that meant he was intentionally trying to discharge magic so he wouldn’t start summoning chain lightning again when he climaxed. That’d happened... more than once. 

It also meant he was close. Good, Dorian was not only breaking a sweat but actively distracting himself in order to hold off his own climax. He’d always found this easy to do by running through equations in his head, but he wouldn’t call it enjoyable. He felt electricity crackling up his arm where he was supporting Gethrael’s back, and let go to grip his cock instead. He was more than capable of holding his own hips up for a moment or two. 

That was certainly all it took. Another few thrusts had the inquisitor seizing and spilling on his stomach; making a strangled sound behind his hands. Dorian stopped moving as soon as he was spent, but kept gently pumping his cock until he let his hands fall away from his mouth with a gasp. There were tiny marks in his cheek from his fingernails. The sparks of the static charge started to fizzle out, scurrying away into nothingness.

Despite being frustratingly close to climax as well, Dorian prided himself on being a good lover. He started to pull back, but Gethrael shook his head again. “Stop,” he said softly, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He let his leg slide from Dorian’s shoulder and reached up to twine both arms around his neck. Not one to argue - alright, not one to argue when it came to receiving pleasure - he sat back and pulled Gethrael up with him, into his lap like they’d started. The elf leaned against him, lazily rocking his hips. 

“You’re a treasure,” Dorian muttered, burying his face in Gethrael’s hair. He personally would’ve found the overstimulation unbearable if their positions were reversed, but right now it felt wonderful. 

“Nnh,” Gethrael definitely didn’t sound pained, though he wasn’t hard anymore. His fingers were digging into Dorian’s flesh in a way that made him feel more wanted than he ever had in his life. The elf didn’t just hold onto him as a lover in the throes of passion. It was hard to put into words, but the sense of belonging was something Dorian had never experienced before him despite his many sexual escapades. When his climax hit him, he found himself squeezing Gethrael tightly, as though he hoped his grip could communicate the same. 

For few moments they embraced, breathing deeply. Dorian realized very quickly that most of the camp would’ve been able to see their tent light up blue even if they hadn’t heard a sound, but he was going to keep that to himself for the time being. The inquisitor’s body no longer felt so taut, at least. Perhaps he’d be able to get a decent night’s rest, which even Cassandra would have to admit was a worthy cause if she complained tomorrow. 

There was someone who would benefit from being taken to bed, possibly more so than anyone Dorian had ever met. He was absolutely not volunteering.

“Had I taken you like this,” Dorian teased quietly, still loathe to release Gethrael from his lap, “it would’ve been a lot easier to keep quiet.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints at the time,” Gethrael sat up straight, looking down at Dorian with that stupid smile of his. 

“I would never,” Dorian said with a dramatic gasp. 

“I wanted to feel it when I’m riding tomorrow,” the elf said with a nonchalance that somehow made it hotter than any husky whisper. He knelt up, finally separating them, and Dorian watched as his issue dripped down the inside of one slim dark thigh. 

“Well, I hope I won’t disappoint,” Dorian said slyly, grabbing him in a last brief kiss. Gethrael gave him a contented look, but remained quiet as he started loosely plaiting his long hair for sleep. It was astonishing the speed he could do that with; Dorian wouldn’t know where to start. It was amusing enough that was his first priority, though he did gladly accept the offered rag to clean himself up. 

The inquisitor looked more comfortable curled up on the thin bedroll than he ever had in the huge bed in Skyhold, and though Dorian found that baffling he supposed it was what a dalish elf would be used to. Seeing how serene he looked was enough to make the mage bite back any complaints he might’ve been considering; though he generally kept his mouth shut about riding and sleeping rough anyways. Everyone was very aware he’d come from a wealthy family, after all, and he wanted them to know he had no reservations about choosing this - 

Choosing him, he thought, watching the elf fondly. He was getting a look that said he should also lay down, and he obliged; hesitating a moment as he always did before tucking Gethrael under his chin and against his chest. If he draped an arm over the inquisitor’s waist, maybe he would at least wake up if his lover tried to leave the tent after only three or four hours of sleep. 

Maybe that was why he himself lay awake a little while, watching pale eyelashes flutter against freckled cheeks. Maybe he was just spoiled and had a hard time convincing his body that he really was going to sleep on the ground like this. 

“Hey, Dorian,” he heard in a mischievous stage-whisper from the next tent. Sera. 

“Mm?” He resisted the urge to say anything in case the vibration of his chest woke Gethrael. 

“Nice one.”


End file.
